


our pockets full of stones

by boyghosts



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: A reimagining of episodes 18-21 but in Space, Alternate Universe - Space Opera, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ash and Eiji Do Stupid Things in the Name of Love, Blanca and Yut Lung Are A Little Conflicted, Brothels in Space, Eiji Attempts a One-Man Rescue, Emotional Manipulation, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Golzine Is Shitty In Every Permutation, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Panic Attacks, Poison and Disguises
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 21:18:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17753666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boyghosts/pseuds/boyghosts
Summary: Yut Lung snapped his fingers in front of Eiji's eyes, and the spell broke. “You are aware you can die at any moment? This is a whorehouse, surely, in every sense of the word, but it is also a fortress, guarding a vessel of God. Do you know that’s what they call him? He is to be trained to be the next Golzine. He will inherit this empire, after all. Do you understand? Are you listening to me? The Ash you knew was a joke,” he said. “He is a monster. He belongs to monsters, like me.”“I love him,” Eiji whispered.Eiji tests his luck. All aboard the floating whorehouse, if you will.





	our pockets full of stones

**Author's Note:**

> a reimagining of episodes 18-21, where ash gives himself up to golzine to safeguard eiji - but in space! on a floating brothel! oh, and eiji is mostly alone in this rescue mission, because what is self-preservation. nobody knows. the crowd stays silent.

 

### Enter, Calico

 

Eiji brought his sister’s silly lucky charm for this—prayed to it, even, with a ferocious desperation of the fraying kind; he’d need all the luck he could get, later—but still, he was positive he was lost. He swore he’d passed by this pot of dying sunflowers twice before. Recognized the arch above him, too, its intricate whorls that windowed a peculiar looking star-cluster spinning just beyond them. It casted a concave of alien light by his feet, and for a moment Eiji paused in his steps and allowed himself a split-second of wonder.

 _Move_ , the voice in his head urged, and so he did. Pulling the cap over his head as he moved along the chess-square floor, he prayed the poor worker he’d knocked out back in the restroom wouldn’t wake too soon to realize all but his trousers were gone. He was sorry about it, just a tad bit—the diagonal strike against the carotid, then a sharp elbow up the stunned man’s chin—but it surprised him, how his body moved like muscle-memory, like he did this sort of thing all his life. Like he wasn’t just calling upon the years-worth memory of watching Ash, studying him, wishing he could do something.

 _Geronimo_ , the voice in his head whistled as the man teetered, back, back, then pitched into the broom closet. It was Ash’s voice, Eiji realized. Which was funny, because the real Ash would never be quite so enthusiastic about Eiji taking part in any kind of fight, much less sneaking aboard floating brothels, unarmed. Eiji wished he’d brought the glock, even if it made him nervous. He had nothing now, save for the charm in his pocket.

A gurgle of voices ahead. A woman in a cascading tube dress stepped out from the turn and called out, “Where’s the ladies room, mister!” and without thinking, Eiji smiled and pointed behind him with a flat palm.“Thanks, darling,” she said, brushing by him with a trail of other chatty women in hourglass silhouettes. Quickly, he took the left turn and followed the way they came.

Twenty steps ahead, another worker was polishing a cupid’s statue.

 _Keep going_ , Not-Ash urged him, and so he did. His pulse ping-ponged in his ears. The worker looked out of it, barely even blinking when Eiji finally passed him, and when Eiji began to sprint in relief, the voice said, _jesus_ , _don’t run, idiot! Just walk. And keep your head down._

When did his subconscious start to sound bossy, too? He really _was_ losing it. That, or it was the space fever, finally getting to his brain.

Eiji regretted not waking up earlier to pray at the river. He’d missed his chance of one last detour through Chinatown; that early, most shops would’ve still been boarded up, but some kept their knock-off Maneki-nekos waving out the windows all throughout the night. A touch of divine luck—or rather, divine _toebeans—_ was all Eiji needed. Even Chang Dai had a tastelessly caricatured poster of it installed by the fourth booth’s window—in honor of Eiji’s first visit, Shorter told him. Eiji’s mind shuttered to a close.

It still hurt to think of Shorter, bone-deep and visceral. But Eiji wouldn’t let himself close that wound.

Down the hallway, two lefts, a right. Eiji passed: another arch, the marble bust of Venus, two oak doors that opened into the viewing deck where Golzine’s patrons and partners clustered (Ash wouldn’t be there; they’d never give him the luxury of it, of star-gazing, because Ash loved those bullet holes of heaven, and weren’t they were intent on cutting off every single beautiful thing he had?)

No one paid him any attention; their mistake, because the cart presented itself to him almost too easily by the next turn. It was fully stocked, unguarded. The worker probably inside the suite, fluffing the pillows or whatever it was they did for these stuck-up folk. Whispering _thanks_ , Eiji grabbed the white robe and two water bottles, traded his dusty shoes for a cozy pair of room slippers. There was a compartment at the side where they kept the complimentary treats; Eiji snatched a muesli bar for himself and slipped away like nobody’s business.

Not-Ash was right, even if his voice grated at him; moving quickly shaved any time for doubt. And Eiji couldn’t afford to let his own head catch up with his body, on auto-pilot in what was essentially a one-man mission, light years away from home. May the 8 million gods of Izumo save him now. This was godless territory.

But somewhere on the ship, was Ash. Eiji was taught not to ask for things; he’d learned to practice restraint all the way to his teen years, but now—now, he let his selfishness bloom as wildly as it could.

 _Please_ , Eiji prayed feverishly, fishing the scrap of hope tucked inside his pocket. _Please_.

 

* * *

 

Eiji knew he was lying.

The lie disguised itself expertly, but Eiji knew Ash, would know him in the dark: the lack of his trademark slouch, the too-serene shape of a smile, like a painting of a lake. Pretty, but depthless, never the real thing.

“Going out of town for a bit,” Ash told him, hovering by the door. “Need to verify a couple of things from Alex’s report. I trust the guy with my life, but you know we can’t take any chances when it comes to the old man.”

Eiji put his book down— _Everyday Japanese Home Cooking,_ or at least, what was left of it, after Skip rescued it from the dump. It was 4:17 P.M. The sun would seep out of downtown soon. “Are Alex and the others coming with you?”

“Not today,” Ash said. His grin was crooked. “It’s a solo trip.”

There. Eiji could pinpoint it from a mile away. Also: Ash left his helmet by Eiji’s bedside, like an afterthought. Ash always brought his helmet.

Before he could process it himself, Eiji was handing it over to him. Ash stared at it just a second too long, and Eiji’s heart sank. Ash was breaking his goddamn heart. 

“Well,” Ash said, tucking it under his arm. “See ya in a bit.”

Later, when Ash disappeared, Eiji would replay the moment over and over in his head, shaking with the guilt of damned. What a fool. He should’ve picked up the hint of nicotine in Ash’s breath the moment he spoke, which meant he’d been sucking on Kong’s awful supply of death sticks, trying to choke out the fear with smoke. Or how he lingered longer in hallways, rarely stepping into their shared bedroom. If Eiji had paid more attention, he’d remark on how cold Ash’s fingers felt, that last day at the doorway, patting Eiji on the cheek like he was comforting a little boy. _What’s with the long face, nii-chan?_ As if Ash wasn’t walking right into the tripwire, setting off the balance that held his and Eiji’s clashing worlds in place.

Eiji would’ve held on to him, then. He would’ve held on to him even if the whole world gave him hell.

 

* * *

 

Club Cod was many things to many people, but mostly it was this: the unholy offspring of Golzine’s Corsican empire and the American government that was willing to blindfold itself as long as it had sure access to the goods. Of course, by goods, that meant _money_ that meant _sex_ meant _power—_ and all the smuggled guns and shiny spacecraft that came with it.

All aboard the floating whorehouse, if you will; once a year Golzine invited groups of VIPs to a cruise along the Cape like it was a river, watching the sea-green clouds of stars shift and swirl in the blustering void of space, its existence such a strange and beautiful mystery that clients reported to have wept at the sight.

If Eiji shut his eyes he knew he’d feel it—the slow inching of the ship like the sleek whale-like beast it was, gift-wrapped in mahogany and jade. He’d passed dozens of windows now; the ultra-rich would kill for just a glimpse. But Eiji never lingered. He kept his head down, watching for shadows as he crept through another unfamiliar hallway.

A brassy horn was trickling into the air. Doors opening and shutting softly. Somewhere, a champagne bottle popped; female laughter. He’d entered one of the livelier wings, and was now debating whether he should've gone back the way he came when the door right in from of him clicked open and a maid exited, pulling her cart out with her.

“Good evening, sir,” she greeted politely, curtsying. How she could tell it was nighttime was a mystery, but he kept his mouth shut. He made the mistake of gaping at her too long, because now she was tilting her head at him. “Is there anything I can assist you with?”

“No. _Eto_ \- no, t-thank you.”

At that, her smile brightened. “Ah, Mr. Minami? It is you.” She bore a new expression on her face that Eiji recognized as _motherly_. “Oh, perhaps you’d like me to assist you back to your room again?”

 _Roll with it_ , Not-Ash advised.

Eiji managed a wobbly smile. “Sorry about that.”

“Oh, not to worry sir, it’s completely understandable. Even a lot of our long time guests lose their way in this part of the ship. Too many twists and turns, you know. Let me walk you to your suite,” she offered, and then she was moving her cart aside and walking ahead, smile beckoning him to follow.

“ . . . a good thing we found you back then, too,” she was saying. “Everything here is open for all guests, of course, sir. But some are less… tasteful, than others.” She turned back to look at him, then laughed bashfully. “Tasteful, meaning—"

“I know what tasteful means,” he said. It came out more annoyed than he’d meant. In the back of his mind, Not-Ash groaned long-sufferingly.

“Ah, oh, of course! Forgive me, sir.” Her hands flew to her mouth as she bowed once, twice, then continued her pace. “I never meant—what I meant to say was, young nobles like you _surely_ have better things to do in their time. Oh, but it’s none of my business, of course, forgive me, sir.”  

There was such feeling in the way she spoke of him—there was awe, a hint of pity, too—but all this time Eiji couldn’t feel her really looking at _him,_  almost as if her eyes were going through him and straight to the promise of riches he somehow apparently had. _Noble_ , was it? What was it she called? Minamoto?

“Well, here we are,” she said. The door in front of him was a deep furbished wood, like the real thing. The gold lettering read: Suite 1803. And in place of a door knob: a sensor-activated lock. The kind that wailed if you so much tried to bump it. Eiji swallowed. 

The maid was saying, “First button on the phone on your bedside, if you need any more assistance. Enjoy your evening, Mr. Minami.”

She was about to turn when she noticed he wasn’t doing anything.

“Is… there a problem, sir?”

 _I don’t have a room key_ , Eiji thought miserably. And what if the room was occupied?  Either way, it was looking bad. He’d have to knock the person out. God, not again.

Without realizing it, his sweaty hand had pressed itself over the shape of his sister’s charm in his pocket.

“Something wrong with your room key, perhaps?”

 _Story time_ , Not-Ash said.

 “I think I left it at the pool,” he said, trying to go for sheepish. Was there even a pool?  He wasn’t sure. But he looked at her beneath his lashes— _big fucking puppy eyes on you, I can’t take it_ , Sing had told him once—and laughed breathlessly. “But I’m too tired to go back and look for it. It’s such a long way, I’m afraid I’ll just get lost again.”

And now, the miracle: the maid perked at that, thrilled at the idea of servicing him again. “Not a problem,” she said. “Let me help you with that.” She slipped an ID out from around her neck and tapped it over the lock, and the small light twinkled _green_. There was a click. The door slid to the side with a soft exhale.

“ . . . by call as well, and it’ll be ready for you by morning. It would be my pleasure. Have a good evening, sir.” She smiled at him, one more enamored, glossy smile, perhaps already daydreaming of all the tips she’d have soon, and left Eiji— _Mr. Minami_ , now—safely in his suite.

 

* * *

 

 

Inside, the first thing he noticed: somebody was sleeping on the bed.

The second thing he noticed: _somebody_ wasn’t moving.

Shaking off the heady trance of fear, Eiji regained his bearings and crept soundlessly towards the slumbering body. The eyes were open—he assumed they belonged to _Minami-san—_ but they never once flickered to him. Eiji put an ear to his mouth and felt the lack of breath, the eerie way his body slumped on itself. He’d seen enough of this to know; the boy’s heart had quit.

On the bed with him was a small vial, two inches from Minami’s hand. Eiji sniffed the stain it left on the sheets and was immediately seized by a hacking cough; it smelled like toxic fumes.

In his other hand, curled over his heart, was a letter. The edge of it clung to his ink-stained fingertips—there was ink smudged on the corners of his mouth, too, and that was a bit strange. Eiji had not seen this type of writing for years, and seeing it now made him ache all the way to his bones. The kanji would’ve been beautiful had the writer not been in such a rush.

Eiji whispered his apologies, then took the letter. He spread the parchment under lamplight to read. He skimmed it once. Then, more closely.

 

_Hikaru,_

_I’m sorry we did not tell you before you left, but there was no room for distractions. It is of utmost importance that you represent the Minami family there. You know this, as much as we all do… our family does not have the influence it used to, and so sacrifices are necessary. We must ensure our survival, for a very long time._

_It was a mistake, letting you two continue meeting. Your mother said you were young, that you would need companions, but you and I know attachments soften the claws, as do house cats. For that, I take full responsibility._

_You will grieve for one night only. And then, you will pick yourself up and attend every party, make sure every investor and most especially Monsieur Golzine are sorry for ever forgetting the Minami name. And you will forget all about that soldier boy. We have prayed for his soul already. It is over, but your mission is not. Remember who you are. Remember why we chose you._

 

At the corner of the page, the writing went blotty:

 

_Again, I truly am sorry for what happened. Come home safe._

 

The letter confused him. It sounded like it was written by three different people who couldn’t quite agree on what to say. Someone precious had died—or at least, someone precious to Minami Hikaru—and there was no coming home safe now, because Hikaru decided to follow after them.

Up close, Eiji could see that it was not ink at all. The pins fell in his head—slowly, then all at once.

The knowledge of it rushed up his throat. Eiji had snuck into a grieving nobleman’s room, and he was _dead_. He scrambled to the bathroom, fell on his hands, and emptied his breakfast in the toilet.

 _Oh god,_ _Ash_ , he thought. _What do I do?_ Everything he saw when he turned his gaze across the room was glaring proof of it—the obi, the sandals, the closet full of hakama in cobalt hues and the deepest of purples.

On the nightstand was a wooden comb with a single strand of black hair. It glinted like a fine river-stone; next to it, his own looked shades lighter, a forgery of color.

Eiji’s thoughts raced ahead. He couldn’t hear Ash now; each time he spoke it dispersed into nothing, like skipping stones puncturing water. Eiji’s next thought was wrong, wrong, wrong, but his body was already moving, taking the montsuki out of the cabinet and lining his arm up the sleeve. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but the length fell over his wrists just fine. They were both on the slight side, it would work; Eiji could make it work.

Hikaru’s suite had a view, and outside Eiji was greeted by one of the Cape’s strange moons laughing in cheshire-ecstasy. What would Ash do, right now?

 _Adapt_ , he heard, in his own voice.

Eiji turned to the bed, went over Hikaru’s body and smoothed his cold clenched fists, arranging them over his stomach. He closed his eyes. Then, clasping his hands tightly, Eiji went to his knees and prayed.

After, he went back to the window and brought his sister’s charm into the light. Outside, the stars broke into gooseflesh. The gods had heard his prayer. They had brought him all the way here, from the dusty heap of downtown to slip through stars like the eyes of needles, miraculously and undeniably _alive_.

 _Name your price_ , Eiji thought defiantly, because there always was a price, the universe never gave things for free. _Name it, and I’ll give it._

Hikaru had lost someone he loved; Eiji would not be the same.

 

### A Coral Snake

 

“I am missing my garden,” Yut Lung announced airily.

If the man across him was taken aback by the change in tone, Yut Lung felt little remorse for him. What was his name again? John? Or was it Jerry? These white men had the most exciting names, surely.

On most days, he could find petty enjoyment in this—playing the pretty, delicate young Lee heir, flashing a mathematically-poised clavicle for pot-bellied corpo-slaves to stumble after while he sopped up classified information they left carelessly in their wake. All while his brothers traipsed off into those stuffy meetings of theirs, with agendas he was already aware of. He pretended to be clueless anyway.

But it had been a long day. He’d had enough of these _how-do-you-do_ s and _how-did-you-meet-the-Monsieur-Golzine_ s, and worse, these _may-i-touch-your-hairs_ , to which he replied, smiling, all venus fly trap magic, _No, you may not._

He’d spent too much time pinning his updo for one man to leave his oil prints on it. Still, the man stayed, realizing it would do better for them both if he spoke about himself than continue to ask these vapid questions about Yut Lung.

Everyone on the ship knew what Yut Lung was—at the same time, no one did. This was exactly how he wanted it.

Yut Lung finished the rest of his rosé. His third, one for each insufferable conversation he'd had throughout the night. Inevitably, his gaze floated beyond his companion’s head. And then, he was shooting to his feet, nearly knocking their twin goblets into the cheese platter.

Jeremy/Josh/John gaped at him.

“Terribly sorry, but I think I’m calling it a night,” Yut Lung said, already breathless—he was _alluring_ on most days, _amicable_ if he felt like it, but _polite_ was an inconvenience, was a big fucking pain in the ass like this thing right there, making its way across the room like a roach; in this very moment, _polite_ was the last thing he wanted to be. “It was lovely meeting you, but I think the color of your tie has given me an awful migraine—oh, and you might want to get that snaggle tooth checked out—don’t look for me _ever_ again!”

 

* * *

The obi weighed much more than it looked, but there was no time to complain. There was a misguided comfort in this that Eiji allowed himself to have. _I am a Japanese man wearing Japanese clothing_ , he thought to himself. No one could play this off better than he could, right now. Not even Ash.

He made his way nimbly across the edge of the ballroom, side-stepping floor-length gowns and feet and their owners. He was going to attach himself to one of the walls, watching from the sides to find a mop of blonde hair and a pair of brilliant jade eyes to enter the room, and he wasn’t going back to his suite until he did.

Behind him was a long table bedecked with food—fresh roe and salmon, silver platters of prosciutto and cheese, biscuits and butter—Eiji’s mouth watered. Without thinking, he grabbed a flute of what looked like fruit juice and downed it.

 _Of course_ it wasn’t juice. His throat filled with the burn. Without warning, the memory of watching _Pretty Woman_ with Ash and Bones flashed behind his eyes; _your cultural immersion begins now_ , _thank me later,_ Ash grinned, dimming the lights, and Eiji sank back in their ancient couch, transfixed, as the handsome white man paired strawberries with champagne. Ash’s arm was around him, solid and warm. Shyly, Eiji had asked for strawberries that night, and Ash obliged. Ash always obliged.

Eiji felt him before he heard him. “Beautiful drink like that should be savored,” the man said next to him, smiling over a perfect set of white teeth. “Slow sips.”

Eiji’s eyes flicked to the stranger’s throat as he tipped his glass back for example. The man tilted it by the spine, letting the edge catch chandelier light.

“Now you try.”

Eiji blinked at the offered drink. “Thank you,” he murmured, accepting the drink. The man waited for him; unnerved, Eiji slowly brought it to his lips and tried, once more.

“You should enjoy the aroma too,” the man said, gesturing. “There’s so much history in that glass. A shame if one simply leaves it be.”

Eiji bit his lip. He lowered his nose to the liquid and breathed in. His nostrils prickled. “Mm, yes I see,” he lied.  

The man laughed at that. Then, he bowed—hand on the chest, a small dip of the head, just enough to expose the crooked hook of his nose. A gentleman’s bow. Ash used to do this to him as a joke, but this man’s face held no gentleness for him.

“ _Hikaru-sama_ ,” the man said. His irises were the gray of the streets. “Have you been enjoying the festivities?”

Eiji’s heart pounded. “Yes, thank you for asking. And you?”

“Ah, can I be honest? It’s been quite uneventful, as far as Golzine’s parties go. Although I must say,” he grinned, “much better, now with you here.”

“You are too kind.” Unbidden, Eiji’s eyes dropped to his own drink; it was difficult holding the stranger’s gaze, for some reason. It was apparent there would be no strawberries.

 _Leave now_ , Not-Ash’s voice was a shrill bell. _Dangerous. Can’t you feel it?_  

The man continued to regard him openly. Eiji pretended to swirl the drink, like he’d seen the other guests do, face tilted slightly down to let his fringe shadow his eyes. The man was speaking to him pleasantly enough. What was it, exactly, that unnerved him?

There: the lapse between his sentences, dangled like bait on a hook. Heavy like history.

Eiji wasn’t touching that with an 80-foot pole. “Well, it’s been a long day. I think I’d like to rest up now—”

Suddenly, the man was standing so much closer. Eiji could see the silver stripes in his perfectly combed hair. Ghost of a scar on his cheek. Skin waxy, vowels clipped—probably from a planet in the Northern regions. Why didn’t he notice it before?

“Must you?” the man said. “We just found each other. The night is ripe, Hikaru.” 

“I’m very sorry,” Eiji said, attempting to withdraw. “I’m feeling quite tired—“

“Here, sit.” The man produced a chair and smiled at him. “You can rest here. Look, here comes the band. We can watch them together. An old man like me could use the company.”

Eiji looked at the chair, the table unoccupied. If a man had to be told no _twice_ , he wouldn’t listen if you told him seven times; this was classic Ash wisdom, he had it under his skin, held it over his heart. Eiji knew—if he took the seat, he wouldn’t be able to leave even if he had a choice.  

The man offered his arm.

“Ah, Colonel,” a voice chimed in—a brief respite before Eiji's stomach dropped into trench-long depths. Of course, _of course_. From the corner of his eye, Eiji watched the man withdraw his hand and greet the newcomer.

“Mr. Lee. To think I’ll be seeing you so soon again,” he said. “Your brothers gave an excellent speech earlier, I know you must be so proud.”

“Of course I am, I copy-edited it. Took me ages, too.” And then they both laughed, and Eiji shrank at the sound. Yut Lung’s voice rang through him like an arrow.

“Will I see you in the board room one of these days as well? I’m terribly interested in your most recent thesis, although if someone told me I’d ever pick up a book on gardening and toxicology, I’d have laughed right in their faces.”

“If my brothers allow it, I'll gladly give you a walkthrough.” Yut Lung bowed; his changshan rustled against his ankles, pearl and gossamer, a new snake’s skin. “What is it you Americans say? A magician never reveals their secrets.” For a moment Eiji swore he felt Yut Lung’s gaze flicker to him. “Well, we shall see. In time.”

“In time,” the stranger agreed.

Then Yut Lung turned to Eiji, who was trying his damndest not to hyperventilate on the spot. “Hikaruuuu,” Yut Lung said, voice sweetening. “I’ve been looking for you all night! It has been too long—you must tell me everything!

 _Sorry, Ash,_ Eiji thought; he was going to have a heart attack before he even found him, with the way Yut Lung squeezed his hand like they were lifelong friends.

“I hope you don’t mind if we _Asians_ catch up for a bit.” Yut Lung adopted a coy smile. Then, to Eiji, “It has been a while, hasn’t it?”

When Eiji didn’t speak, Yut Lung’s grip around his fingers grew white-knuckled.

“Y-yes, it has! Very long. We should t-talk. Mm. Yes.”

The Colonel looked at Eiji with a look he couldn’t decipher. “Of course,” he said, and the look was gone, as soon as it came. “You two catch up. I’ll see you later.”

The last bit was directed at him. Eiji schooled his grimace into a polite smile.

“Beautiful drink,” the man repeated.

 

* * *

 

 

The words wouldn’t come. Even as Yut Lung slid a hand amicably around his elbow and tugged him through the crowd, Eiji found himself rendered quiet. The hand felt like claw, the promise of needles pricking the skin. Gods, was this the end? Luck led him safely to the bowels of hell only to end up ratted out by Yut Lung, of all people. He never banked on it— _should’ve_ , because in every undesirable situation, the man was always inexplicably _there_ , standing serenely in the background with all a puppet-master’s mania. 

The last Eiji had seen him, Yut Lung had been a neutral party. He remembered feeling his body in pieces. The taste of brass in his mouth. Ash’s stricken voice above him, saying, _I’m here_ , _he gave me the fucking key, I thought you, oh God, I thought—_ the loading bay shuddering from takeoff, the flames around them sucked into the dark mouth of space—and Shorter—Shorter had—

Yut Lung’s hand stayed on him even as they descended the staircase. The plaque naming the floor read: _Eden_. Eiji felt naked, in every sense of the word.

Left turn. Ten doors. Eiji’s eyes swept the place for exits, just like Ash taught him. _Two,_ but he'd be poisoned before he'd even think about making a run for it. _Breathe, stay calm._  Down a hallway that smelled like Yut Lung’s hair. The carpet here was sewn with wild orchids.

When they were deep enough into this garden of corridors, Yut Lung cuffed Eiji on the neck and shoved him forwards.

“What kind of fool,” Yut Lung spat, “manages to tie one’s obi the wrong side up? You realize you’re wearing the Minami seal upside down?”

“Let go of me,” Eiji gritted out.

“You’re in no position to demand anything from me, _Hikaru_ ,” Yut Lung said. “ _Walk_.”

At the end of the hallway were the elevators. Yut Lung pushed him into the first one that opened. As the doors closed behind him, Eiji felt something sharp by his neck and bristled. “Try anything and I will poison you and bring your cold dead body to your dearest Ash Lynx.” At the name, white hot rage pooled into his stomach. “That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it? And here I thought the Japanese were  _sensible_. Who else is here? Hold that thought.”

The elevator stopped, and it was like whiplash, how quickly Yut Lung released him and occupied the space next to him, not too close but not too far, just as a maid entered, pushing in her laundry cart. Eiji held his breath. An American singer was crooning a wartime ballad over the speakers.

The maid greeted them. Yut Lung observed his nails. Eiji’s stomach coiled and coiled and coiled. _Somewhere, waiting for me, my lover stands on golden saaand—_

—the elevator stopped. The cart’s wheels squeaked. Doors sliding closed. Immediately, Yut Lung shoved him viciously against the wall.

“I need names,” Yut Lung said cloyingly. “Who else have you brought to your little suicide mission?”

“No one,” Eiji gritted out. “Just me.”

“Lie to my face again and—“

“I’m not lying!” Eiji squirmed away, then pressed his back against the opposite wall, breathing ragged. “I swear. I’m telling the truth.”

“Right. Is Sing here as well? Your crew of rogue ships—”

“I told you, I’m alone!”

As the elevator slowed to a stop, Eiji felt the weight of his words for the first time. But there was no other way he’d have wanted it. He thought of Skip, the bloodied plume of Shorter’s hair. _No more._

When the doors opened, Yut Lung held them open for him. “Get out,” Yut Lung spat. Eiji didn’t need to be told.

“Where are we going?”

“I ask the questions here,” he said. The ornate carpet in this hallway muffled their steps; the quiet was near-maddening. They passed by a dozen or so rooms before Yut Lung commanded, “ _Stop_ ,” reaching past Eiji to slide his keycard into the slot and shove him unceremoniously inside, where he landed on his hands. Getting manhandled was starting to get old real fast.

The door clicked shut behind him. “Here’s my first question: where is Hikaru-kun?” Yut Lung's room was lit by a lone lamp; it casted a shadow across them, swallowing their bodies.

Eiji glared back at him.

Yut Lung bent down, tracing Eiji’s jaw with the bulbed end of his needle. “I won’t repeat myself: when I ask a question, you will answer me.”

Gods, what a prick. Eiji told him—from the maid in the hallway, to the letter, then the body, found too late. Death in bottle. Eiji shivered.

Yut Lung faltered then; he’d been pacing a circle around Eiji. “He said it was for his sessions.” His hand went to his temple.

“Sessions?”

At that, Yut Lung leered at him. “Yes. _Sessions_ ,” he said. “Hikaru-kun is the Minami family’s only son, set to inherit historically valuable cultural assets. _Was_ , now. Shame.” There was a dead thing in his smile. “I suppose it is rational—people would rather fuck you than read your poetry. But a whore is a whore is a whore is a whore,” he snarled. He was tugging at his own braids, coiling them around his fingers.

Eiji wasn’t following. “Wh—Hikaru was going to poison them...?”

“Poison—no, you— _hútú dàn—”_ An exasperated noise fell out Yut Lung’s mouth. “We do not _poison_ our clients, unless we want to keep our heads after. What was in the bottle—that was just a humble analgesic. A little escape route I had personally prepared, for a fellow brother. For when his clients… go too far.” 

Eiji’s stomach fell.

Yut Lung's hand hovered over his mouth. “A drop would’ve sufficed. A whole bottle—”

Something edged itself into Yut Lung’s voice. Eiji watched him prowl further into the room. It was then he noticed: the plants gasping on the windowsill, a stray book on the toilet seat, the glint of day-old wine bottles collected like trophies behind the plush couch; the place, from a glance, was well-kept, but it hid its own chaos cleverly.

Suddenly Yut Lung was in Eiji’s face, sharp and displeased. “How did you get here, if not with the help of your little ragtag gang?”

There was no use; Eiji let him have the truth, too—skipping the bits where he followed Ash’s voice in his head, of course. Yut Lung was looking at him like he'd just put his head on upside down, too.

“It’s astounding,” he began, and his voice shook, “the sheer—audacity and, and, and _stupidness_ you possess—”

“Thanks, I try—”

“And what is your plan? How, pray tell, are you going to bring down an entire ship crawling with Golzine’s men, all by yourself?” There was a new mania tinted to his voice. “The Ash Lynx himself can’t even save himself. Let alone one—”

“Ash thinks he’s protecting me by not fighting back. Stupid idiot.” Eiji pushed himself to his feet, finally. “I’m not letting him go alone anymore. I’m going to talk to him.”

“Talk to him!” Yut Lung nearly broke into a laugh. His braids shook as he tried to compose himself, and suddenly Eiji felt small. But then he remembered Ibe. Once upon a memory, a face in Izumo frozen in time. Snow upon train tracks. _You can be selfish_. 

Permission; Ibe had gifted him with that. It occurred to Eiji that no one had ever given that to Ash.

When he looked at Yut Lung again, he did not flinch. “Everyone here seems to like to tell him what to do. I’m sick of it. Ash is his own person, and I’m here to give him a choice. I’ll leave him alone if he that’s what he really wants, but I won’t leave until I hear it from himself first.” His voice was tight as a fist, ready to roll. Thirty four hours in space, only now was Eiji buoyant. He said, “I’ll crash this ship into the next sun if I have to.” 

Yut Lung’s voice went taut. “You are aware... he agreed to play Golzine's shiny weapon because of you? In return for your pathetic life.” He clicked his tongue. “And now you are here. _Alone_. What a waste of a perfectly good sacrifice.”

But Eiji wasn’t listening anymore. He was somewhere else, standing in the golden wheat-field, Ash’s hair sinking into infinity. He was waist-deep in the river, the water skipping, giggling. Ash clinging to him against the undertow; or was Eiji clinging to him? Ash, Ash, Ash. Youth in his mouth. Summer in the mind. Ash, safe. 

Yut Lung snapped his fingers in front of Eiji's eyes, and the spell broke. “You are aware you can die at any moment? This is a whorehouse, surely, in every sense of the word, but it is also a fortress, guarding a vessel of God. Do you know that’s what they call him? He is to be trained to be the next Golzine. He will inherit this empire, after all. Do you understand? Are you listening to me? The Ash you knew was a joke,” he said. “He is a monster. He belongs to monsters, like me.”

“I love him,” Eiji whispered. He didn’t know why he confessed that. But it was true. As true as each breath that left him, it was true.

There was a silence, like Yut Lung was coming out from under the sea.

“You? Love the lynx?” Yut Lung’s face hopped from one gleefully twisted expression to the next, until it was this mangled, dark thing. His voice dropped. “You do not possess the proper context to love someone like Ash. How can you? You love what you can see, or at least, what you trick yourself into seeing. You don’t even know half of what Ash Lynx genuinely is. You're a fool. Only someone who can understand him can truly say he is in love with Ash. Someone like me, even.”

“Like you?” The image of Yut Lung and Ash was—something.

“You have an opinion on this?” he said, whip-sharp. Eiji had plenty, but now was not the time. “I wonder, does the lynx love you back?”

 _Boss only listens to you,_ Alex had whined to him once. _And Boss is one big_ _stubborn motherfucker, you catch my drift?_ Gods, Eiji sure hoped he would. He was banking everything on Ash listening to him, if only this once.

“I…. he cares for me,” Eiji mumbled. “But it does not matter if he does, or does not. I won't let them have him.”

“A one-man mission,” Yut Lung drawled. “How… quaint."

"That must make two of us then." Eiji looked at the dark shadows in Yut Lung’s room, the large bed too big for one person, the single cup. He looked at Yut Lung. “I know. Sing told me. What they did to you—”

“You will be quiet.” Suddenly a hand was around his throat. Eiji’s eyes flew open. His feet hit the bed, and he flopped back into it. As he gasped, Yut Lung loomed over him. His eyes were hard.

“Your world of three full meals and silly sports games makes no sense to Ash. You'll never keep up." And then he smiled darkly. "What you need is to be a monster—just like him. Just like me. Are you willing to be a monster, little Okumura Eiji-kun?”

"I won't play your games—"

Yut Lung moved to leave. "I guess you aren't interested in my help."

“Anything!” Eiji called hoarsely. “Please. You know I'd do anything.”

Yut Lung stopped. He sent a smirk over his shoulder. “Mm. How about this then?” He moved to the window, pulled the draws back. “Jump out and end it right now. When Ash finds your cold body floating outside the ship, there’s no more reason why he should subject himself in this hell hole any longer.”

Outside: the stuff of dreams. Deep sea green, nearly acidic.

Eiji’s face was a hard line.

“What? Can’t do it, can you? I thought you said anything! Or maybe we should start small. You are planning to play dress up, are you not? You have a reputation to uphold. What’s your plan?” he said, steps fringing the bed. “Will you give your body up? Let your body learn what me and Ash were forced to? Convince me, and maybe I’ll believe you have what it takes.”

“I don’t need to prove anything to you,” Eiji gritted out.

“I could walk right up to Golzine and he’ll know, you know that, right? He’ll have his hostage, and then Ash will truly be his prisoner, for life.”

“Please, I—" Eiji said. “I just—let me be by his side. Please, just let me protect him.”

“How? With how you are now? You can’t even protect yourself!”

Eiji swallowed. The truth of it stared at him like an eye. Yut Lung was upon him then. His steps were shadow-cloaked, and when he spoke his voice was treacle, cold and honeyed, right over him.

“You’re quite lucky, because I have far more important plans than watching you kill yourself. Then again, I’d hate to draw this out more than we need to. It will be quick; Ash will get over it.” Eiji's fingers clenched around his knees. Glee jumped into Yut Lung's voice. “But maybe, if you convince me otherwise, I’ll keep my mouth shut. Let you run around the ship for your hopeless suicide mission. But only,” he smiled, “if you convince me. So what's your plan, little Eiji Okumura? Your luck will run out soon. We only have—”

“18 days,” Eiji said quietly. “I know. I—I did my homework.”

Yut Lung went quiet.

“Avida. Then, Castilla. The clouds are lighter now than they were this morning, which means we're almost at Via Sacra. So 17 days, then.”

“So you’re not just a stupid castaway," Yut Lung said after a pause. “Well, then. How are you planning to last?”

Eiji looked at him.

“Well? You have a part to play, do you not? How are you going to last 17 days?"

Eiji's eyebrows furrowed, and Yut Lung casted a look upon him that could only be described as disdain, in its bare essence.

“Let me illustrate it further: you're to be Minami Hikaru now, are you not? You have to act the part. Be invisible, but not _too_ invisible." When Eiji continued to gape at him, he snapped: "Look at yourself. Big eyes. Small frame. Lure them in. That’s your hook. That was Hikaru's, too.” Eiji was going to be sick; Hikaru had looked all of seventeen years. Yut Lung tapped his head, said, “That’s the kind of thinking you need. That’s how me and Ash survive.”

This was nothing Eiji didn't already know; he had expected the worst, was ready for it. But still: "That's—I'm—that's _awful_ —"

“Can't do it?" Yut Lung crouched to his knees in front of him; Eiji's clammy hands fisted the sheets. "Oh, but I thought you loved him?"

Sometime ago, Ash's voice had gone utterly silent.

“I do—”

“Then _evolve_ ,” Yut Lung said, grabbing his jaw to meet him eye to eye, and Eiji recognized his own budding madness. “The you right now is useless and weak. Kill it.” He smiled, almost tender. Then his voice went unbearably soft. “Or I will, myself.”

 

### A Lynx in the Elephant Cage

 

Somewhere else on the ship, Blanca was faced with a slight dilemma. _The Yellow Wallpaper_ was fascinating, and he’d been making such progress too, only to realize he’d been reading the same line over and over for the past minute. It couldn’t be helped. Sighing, he left his book on his chair and walked over to where Ash stood in front of the vanity mirror for the past half hour.

“Up,” he said, tilting Ash’s chin and rescuing the tie from the boy’s poor fumbling fingers. He managed to get up to the loop before Ash swatted his hands away.

“I can dress myself,” Ash huffed. He pressed the shell of his tie down, disappointed to see it lay flat. Now for the suit. On the bed behind him were all sorts of clothes Golzine’s butler had handpicked—printed jackets and lush velvet, lace shirts and mandarin collars, royal hues from all the world’s fashions. Ash felt like a very elaborate peacock. The migraine was coming back.

“I do not doubt that. I do, however,” Blanca said, “wonder if you are planning to take all day and make us late for the gala tonight.” 

“And why in the world would I want to do that?” Ash sighed and put the drama in it, watching his own eyes in the mirror. “It’s all I ever dreamed, being paraded about like a dog.”

“I do hope you’d stop talking about yourself like that.”

“Why? It’s the goddamn truth.”

Blanca let the moment hang—he’d learned this dance, this delicate line between holding Ash’s attention and not scaring him off. “I hate to see you like this, after you’ve made so much progress. I told you the monsieur would be a little more lenient with you if you learned to watch your mouth. He even let you have your own suite this time around.”

“My own—” Ash had to stifle a laugh. He turned around, eyes bright like daggers. “How kind of the old man, right? My own room. Christ. It’s more than I’ll ever deserve, isn’t it?”

“Don’t start. You know this is how he works. You know we either play his game or lose by default. I’m telling you this because I care for you—” and now that rare quality resurrected itself in Blanca’s voice; Ash had come to recognize it but refused to acknowledge it. “Listen to the Monsieur. You can save yourself all this unnecessary suffering. Don’t give him a reason to... correct you again.”

“Do you know where we’re going? After this?”

“The gala, Ash.”

“I mean this floating monster of a whorehouse. Do you know? Or didn’t they tell you?” He clucked his tongue at Blanca’s blank frown. “They’ll say it’s just a maintenance drop, when we pass a couple of landfill moons. Not a total lie either—nothing but rich people garbage out there. Shit, maybe they’ll even call it a field trip.” His grin looked wrong for his delicate suit. “But you wanna know the truth? Golzine’s going fishing. And his taste? Orphaned street urchins with nothing but their names. Just how his clients like it.”

For once Blanca had nothing to say. Ash reveled in his moment of victory, even as his stomach folded into itself.

“If you really cared for me," he began, "you’d put a bullet in the jeezer’s head while he’s asleep."

“Are you proposing a job?” Blanca said. “If I remember correctly, it was you who asked me to leave him to you.”

“You’re not wrong.” Ash showed his teeth. “I’m gonna be the one that puts him in the ground.”

“Ah, yes, that you did mention.”

“Good, don’t forget it.”

“I won’t let them hurt you,” Blanca promised. Ash had heard many iterations of this, from men and women alike; all of them were empty, flimsy things, and all of them had failed him. He hadn’t realized he was digging into his arm until Blanca plucked his fingers from his skin, one by one. “That’s the only deal I made with Golzine this time. To protect you. I swear it."

For someone so colossal on the outside, Blanca lived like someone five foot tall, flinching from ghost pains. Ash would rather die than end up like him.

“Thanks, I mean, but what's the use in that? You're just like me. You, the guns, and me—their fucking meat sack. Guess that makes us both prostitutes,” Ash laughed, enjoying the look that broke open on his mentor’s face; it was a good look on him. He turned his back, walking past the couch to lean against the veranda. The sliding lock was barred, the window wrapped with wallpaper decorated with violet fields; Ash wanted to laugh again. “Say, Blanca,” he said, tracing the flowers with the pads of his fingers, “when all this ends, and god takes pity on your sorry ass gives you an out on the other side of this mess—will you take it? Or will you just stand there?”

Blanca lifted an eyebrow at him. “Oh, kid. There is no out.”

“Humor me for a sec.

“I’ll admit, it’s a nice thought. But you speak like I haven’t tried,” Blanca said. “I did. I tried many things. A lot of naive, petty things. But there is really no off button to this kind of thing. We’re in here for the long haul.” Ash turned and saw Blanca peering into the vanity, tucking the loose his loose strands behind his ear. He threw Ash a smile through the mirror, and he looked almost harmless. “I did try though.”

Ash looked away.

And then, before his next breath Blanca had crossed the distance between them, gripping his shoulder almost painfully to look at him. “But if you do,” he began, and the meek facade had slipped, replaced by steel, and _this_ was the Blanca Ash remembered, “if you _try_ , promise me you’ll win—or die trying. If there’s even the slightest chance that you’ll lose, you stop. There are other battles to be won. But not this. It’ll be a pain to be assigned clean up, only to find out I have to mop up your guts. That would be unpleasant.”

And then Blanca smiled. He had pocketed away all his blistering fire so quickly, Ash could only nod.

Those words chased him, even later, when he stepped beneath the chandelier light and transformed into the most charming, most gracious ornament in Golzine’s fucking Christmas tree, just like he was taught. He couldn't stop thinking of it. He _had_ hadn’t he? His entire life was one rebellion after the other. But Golzine could take away everything he had, especially _him_ , and that boy was the only thing Ash would never gamble. Leaving him hurt like an exit wound that promised to stay open, but Ash could surrender to that.

If it meant that boy would live, Ash would learn never to hope again.

He turned those words over and over again, even midway through the opera show, when a patron next to him let his hand fall surreptitiously over Ash’s lap. He looked him right in the eye, then let his steaming mug of tea spill over the man’s lap, just to even the playing field. As Golzine’s men escorted him out, he brought it out again. Blanca's Rubik’s cube. The man had a penchant for language games, thanks to all those books of his. Lately he'd say things he couldn't possibly mean, rewording them, slipping the truth in between pockets of lies and leaving you to pick apart the body. Did he really mean that? Or maybe the man was just a nihilist by heart. Who the fuck knew.

_Tell me you’ll try._

After all these years, did Blanca really think so little of him? He never needed to be told: if he was going down, Ash was going to drag as many motherfuckers as he could down to the fucking depths with him.

 

### A Perfect Deluge

 

When Yut Lut leaned forward, taunting Eiji against the hard line of his lips, he didn’t expect Eiji to rush in and kiss him.

 _Kiss_ was a joke. More like a punch to the mouth. After all his threats and promises of pain, Eiji just nodded.

“Okay,” he’d said. This was not what Yut Lung wanted. Still, it surprised him, how his body sang. Eiji gripped his shoulder—his hands small and devastatingly soft—and pulled him close. This, too, was a cosmic joke; there was no love present between them, but their bodies were responding honestly, conversing in the language of desperation and skin hunger. When Yut Lung’s hand grazed his side, Eiji’s whole body trembled like a lyre. Not once did he avert his eyes.

“You’re naive, and you don’t know anything,” Yut Lung said, blowing a scalding breath into his ear. “This won’t change that.” And Eiji bucked as if to say, _show me then. Show me. I’ll take all of it._

In that moment, Yut Lung knew the boy would do anything. Yut Lung could push him down the loveseat and he would follow, eyes open but unseeing, and Yut Lung would look into them like reading the dregs of tea leaves, deciphering omens to come. He could take him right there, mount him and take him apart, because it was apparent the white boy hadn’t, even in all their times together. It’d be a personal favor.

But when Yut Lung took him into his mouth, Eiji curled his fingers against his nape—Yut Lung’s body locked up, expecting the tug, that one simple violence that always unravelled the braids in his hair, no matter how lovingly the pins were placed—but the boy just kept his hand there, palm warm on his jaw, a mockery of a lover’s touch. And well, wasn’t that new? 

When Eiji came, Yut Lung felt undone, pulled taut. It was Ash's name on the boy's lips, just like it was earlier, chanted like a prayer— _Ash, Ash, Ash_ —as if he could wish him into the real world. Yut Lung knew Ash would hate him, now and for the rest of his life. There was no coming back from this.

Yut Lung needed a very long nap.

Scrubbing his palm over his mouth, he shoved Eiji back against the couch. “Lesson’s over,” he said, then adjusted his collar.

Eiji's breath was ragged; tremors shook up and down his thighs. “Where are you going? You promised—”

“I never promised anything.”

“You said—!”

“I _said_ ," he pressed, his mind flailing helplessly in the face of such mind-blowing naivety; he couldn't be in the room anymore, he needed to get  _out_ — "lessons _over_.”

**Author's Note:**

> come cry over banan feesh / yell at me over @ [twt](http://twitter.com/boyghosts)


End file.
